


Arrangement

by drowsycakes



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Minor Character Death, hanahaki, mild body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-28
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-02-07 20:01:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12848481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowsycakes/pseuds/drowsycakes
Summary: “I can’t love a dead man, Gabriel…”What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger—which only makes developing Hanahaki disease post-mortem a never ceasing irritation for Reaper. But they just might make themselves useful in reuniting him with an old soldier…





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got paired up with lovely [ Rockettea ](https://rocketttea.tumblr.com) for the Reaper76 Reverse Big Bang! [ She did the art and prompt for this Hanahaki inspired fic. ](https://rocketttea.tumblr.com/post/167955195558/my-contribution-to-the-reaper76bigbang-reversew) I had a lot of fun while working this prompt, so hopefully my language isn’t too flowery (ha…….) But most of all, I hope I did her art justice and that you enjoy what we created together!

Someone left flowers in his office.

It’s not the first time. He remembers how a baker’s dozen of red roses ended up on his old desk two decades ago on Halloween, of all things. They arrived sidled with a box the size of a small end table filled with a custom order of individually hand-dipped creams, cherries, and caramels; and with them, Zurich’s finest Swiss chocolatier had crafted a perfect rendition of the Blackwatch sigil. 

The events that followed…were hazy. He thinks it started as a continuation of their usual head-to-heads from the Halloween party: Who could tell the most terrifying tale?  Who could hold their punch better? Whose big mouth could bob for apples the best, and who could convince Ana to not call the sitter for an eighteenth time?  On and on until the tiebreaker followed them back to their quarters...and the sealed kingdom of chocolate lying idle on his desk. And before either had eaten their way to the beast’s cherry dipped eyes, they learned not even super soldiers were made to stomach ten pounds of rich confectioneries.

“You know what the worst part of this all is?” Jack grits through a chocolate-tinged grin beside him, “this particular size of candy box was literally called ‘Death by Chocolate.’”

It hurts like hell to laugh, but he does so anyway. “A size or a promise?” is what he manages after the cramping stops.

Jack’s grin only widens. “A guarantee from the looks of things. But...not really. This...is our own damn pride. Our own damn fault. I mean, the shoppe itself  came highly recommended by Angela.”

“See, Jack, now that little tidbit of information only convinces me further that we might  actually  be poisoned.”

“Y _ou_ might be,” Jack amends, rolling onto his stomach a grunt, “especially after the way you tormented her during  last year’s party.”

He sits up so suddenly he has to wait for his stomach to settle before even daring to open his mouth.  Thankfully what comes out is only words. “You can’t wear scrubs to a Halloween party and call it a costume. That’s just lazy---even for _Bland-_ gela.”

Swears start to curdle the air between his lips as he fights to undo the obscene amount of belts securing the black custom duster he’d spent months working on. It does little to aid the bitter sting in his gut, even when the other man reaches over to help undo the last two buckles. “At least she took your advice. Probably going to wear that handstitched witch getup you made  for her for the next twenty years.”

He snorts. “Would’ve turned out better if she hadn’t waited the weekend before to ask about it.”

“Ha. Like you don’t love a challenge,” Jack says, fishing a scarlet colored contact out of his eye. He discards it over the side of the bed before moving onto the second. His underliner has started to streak to where white face paint has already started to flake off his cheek. “Not everyone is like me and can enjoy the comfort of having their entire Halloween ensemble planned out for the next four years.”

“Six.”

“Six _years_?” What starts as a quick snicker quickly grows into a breathy chuckle, and then an indubitably painful and sugar enhanced belly laugh. Jack braces an arm around his waist and leans so that the bed creaks under them just slightly. “If it wasn’t for the uniform, I wouldn’t know what socks I’d be wearing tomorrow,” he murmurs, placing a careful hand over the open part of the black duster. “So thanks, Drac.”

He feels a sticky sweet kiss linger in the center of his forehead before Jack pulls back and looks down. Those blue eyes are back to their sharp hue and Jack flashes a pair of fake fangs at him before hunkering down on the comforter beside him.

He sits up a little, hoping to return the gesture when he notices one of the roses from earlier had been left on top of his chest.   He lifts one of the petals under his thumb, and parts another set with his forefingers. It’s still budding. Curious, he asks “Halloween. I get the chocolate,  but why the roses?”

The red leather bomber Jack’s still wearing rolls perfectly with his shoulders when he shrugs. “I dunno,” Jack admits,  “I guess...it was because you were on a four-month assignment during Valentine’s. And then I was gone for that UN committee around your birthday.”

“So what? We’re floating holidays now, is that it? Be honest:  am I going to wake up to turkey prepared eight ways and an electrocuted spruce in my living room tomorrow?”

“Shit. please don’t mention food right now,” Jack groans, right before giving the other man’s thigh a forceful squeeze. “No, I just… wanted to do it,  and I  didn’t want another opportunity to slip by just in case--I mean if anything...”

He swallows, but instead of finishing what he was saying, turns his head towards the side of his pillow.  “You don’t like them.”

“No,” he argues, but true, the gesture is corny. He’s always found roses to be overhyped. Obtusely romantic; Traditional, safe, and predictable. Like Jack-- _his_ Jack has always has been. Always will.  

“I think they’re perfect for me tonight,” he decides while his fingers test each individual thorn. “Really, they complete the whole vampire ensemble. I get to look like a proper corpse now.”

Something swats the flower off of him, and there’s suddenly a finger jabbing at his chest in place of a thorn. “Don’t,” Jack says. The skin over his jaw is tight and more pained than he ever looked battling a stomachache-- or enduring SEP injections. “Don’t say shit like that. I mean it.” It’s almost mournful the way Jack dips his head until it rests softly over the center of his chest. Even his stomach doesn’t protest under the weight.  

_“I can’t love a dead man, Gabriel…”_

A prick of nausea dissolves the memory in an instant. The flowers in his office today are not lovingly bound by a bow or carefully gathered in a vase. Instead,  they’re strewn about like entrails. Bits of petals, stalks, and stems border the edge of the desk, broken but remarkably unblemished.

These flowers don’t belong to Gabriel Reyes; they’re Reaper’s.

Immediately, a  low burning begins to fester at the center of his chest, and he digs his claws deep into the metal until they find familiar indents formed by prior episodes. He’s no stranger to feeling the shape of his lungs contort within him, but it doesn’t make the process any more pleasant. Especially knowing what they are--why they’re there, and what they’re doing--

And as quick as a cough, it’s over: the burning, the words, the memories, all of it slips out between the slots in Reaper’s mask in one thick wisp of smoke. _Keep it together,_ he wills and his skin hisses from the nanomachines realigning themselves to their host’s form. Joints and the memory of bones and tendons snap into place. The buzzing dulls and the smoke dwindles until they reveal a lone amaranth blossom, fully formed and as perfect as the other petals scattered around it.

In one fluid motion, Reaper crushes it under his right hand and materializes a shotgun behind him in the left.  He points it until the empty space crackles into a single sharp purple nail, poised up and hushing the barrel of the gun with a few calm taps. “Easy, boss...it’s only me.”  

“And that’s supposed to deter me?”

“Oh please!”

As the rest of Sombra shimmers into existence, she moves the gun aside with a playful push. “You don’t need to act all _machismo_ just because I caught you stopping to smell the roses,” she says, leaning an elbow onto the desk. “Not that these are roses--they are lovely though!”

She tilts her head up at him and her pink lips split into an off-center grin, “Did you grow these  yourself?”

She vanishes the second she finishes talking. Reaper doesn’t waste any energy in re-aiming. Sure enough, the hacker pops up on top of a filing cabinet and lets her legs dangle against the metal door.  She looks down at him from her perch, a magpie in full neon glory. “Wanna know something cool?”

“No.”

“Fine,” she concedes, “you get to hear the long, boring version then,” and continues talking right over the exasperated growl from below:

“See, there was this old flower shop right down the street from where I lived, and every day I used to watch people go in and out of it from my bedroom window. Well, it wasn’t _my_ bedroom window. It was the _Dorado's Golden Home for  Girl_ s’ dormitory window--and I guess technically, it wasn’t _every_ day since I traded my bunk with Rena for her hour in the computer lab every other Tuesday.”

“Sombra…”

“You asked for the boring version, remember? Anyway, I’d sit for hours and watch these people come out with giant bouquets,” she adds, spreading her hands above her, “massive roses, carnations, and lilies. Sunflowers the size of your head! I used to sit and think: ‘what kind of  person would you have to be to be on the receiving end of  one of these monstrosities?’ ”

 “You sound jealous,” Reaper muses, but the provoke only yields laughter.

“Ha! Nice try, but I was the same back then as I am now,” she says, taking a second to study her nails before drumming them along the edge of the file cabinet. “It takes more than some dead weeds to hack this girl’s heart. So, hmm no. I didn’t care about the flowers...I cared about what the flowers were _saying.”_

“ ‘Why does Senora Costas always insist on buying flowers out of season when her sister comes to visit?’  ‘Why does Mayor Arce  purchase a dozen roses for his wife and two dozen for his secretary?’ _Those_ kind of things.” She drops down to the floor with a flourish,  “In many ways, that florist also grew the lovely hacker you see before you.”

The half-formed gun in Reaper’s left hand solidifies a little more.  “I’ll pass along my gratitude the next time I’m in town.”

Sombra beams back at him as she brushes past. “Oh, I bet you would love to. But you can’t. Place has been shut down for _years_ now. Turns out it was a money-laundering front for _Los Muertos--_ or maybe it was a drop off for _Diablitos?”_  She fiddles with a loose seam in her collar and shrugs. “ _No recuerdo._ Ah, people ruin everything beautiful, you know? _”_

“Enough!”

Agitation crackles over his skin and timbre, and for the first time, Sombra falls silent. She raises a wary eyebrow at him. “I don’t care what you remember, “Reaper growls,  “or why you’re here. Either say what you came to say or get--”

Her fingers reach for the shadow of his hood and swiftly withdraws. A spindly yellow flower rolls down his shoulder. He stops and Sombra pinches a screen in front of him out of thin air.

“Now, I’d seen amaranths before, “ she says, sliding the picture away to pull up a hologram of the yellow blossom, “but ylang-ylangs? Now that was a new one, even  for me.”

Gone is the playful banter: Sombra’s tone is all business now, and he feels a rare wisp of fear twist every fiber of his being as she continues.

“Still, you don’t need to be the World’s Greatest--and humblest-- hacker to find out these beauties aren’t native to Cairo--which just so happens to be where one of Hakim’s boys found it and the rest of your little scrapbook collection over there. Along with this.”

She produces a creased photograph, folded so that only the split, sand faded edges show. “You _really_ need to take better care of your personal belongings, _Gabe.”_  

Claws snap up the photograph in an instant, and Reaper is a little surprised that she relinquished it with such ease. _She has a copy,_ he realizes. _Backed up on some classified server Christ knows where._

“Now I know what you’re thinking,” Sombra says, voice slipping back to her bubbly repartee, “and I don’t.  Sorry to disappoint you, but your little lover’s spat or whatever is happening here? Doesn’t interest me. I’ve seen novellas with more intrigue. But your little... secret garden? That was an interesting discovery.”  She holds her chin in her hands and shrugs, “Never in my wildest information circles would I have ever guessed that those message board sob stories about _hanahaki_ were true. Least it can’t kill you---wait! That’s not how you died, right?”

Both of her palms shoot up to placate the rapidly solidifying shotguns pointed at her. “Ok, sorry, sorry! Big bad explosion took you down, got it. Whatever. Listen,” she says, expanding another screen, “believe it or not, I’m actually on a mission of goodwill here. I’m not the type of girl who loves flowers, remember? I love information.  So! That’s exactly what I’m paying you back for today.”

A news headline rolls over the top of the screen and Reaper goes stone still, unable to fight the rapid tightening in his chest.

“Remember the piece _Atlas_ did that you wanted me to look into? Well, it just so happens that I managed to dig up a few of Ms. Olympia Shaw’s sources-- and you’ll be pleased to know you were right: they’re former agents. ” She flicks to a screen with a couple of profile pics. Faces he recognizes from hallways, but nothing grander. Still, if they thought highly enough of themselves to speak out on highly classified matters…

“You have contact information, then?” he asks, slow in order to hide his eagerness. “Names? Addresses?” 

“ ‘ _Addresses?_ ’” she scoffs and Reaper can even make out an eye-roll from in between lines of scrolling text, “ _Gabrielito_ , I know what they got from the office vending machine last Thursday and where their mamas sent them to preschool.”  With a snap, everything collapses into a neat luminescent cube. She places it into his palm and tilts her head with an equally skewed smile, “I don’t suppose I need to ask _why_  you wanted to know?”

 He turns so quickly that the ylang-ylang blossom on his shoulder tumbles to the floor and is promptly crushed by the heel of his boot.

 “I want to send them flowers.”

 

 

 ###

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Were Ana not a lady, she’d spit. “A convincing trap, maybe. An elegant trail of rose petals to seduce you back here, right where he wants you. You think it’s a coincidence we’re back in Bloomington? Do you honestly think Adrian Willow, Assistant Lab Clerk, is his target, Jack?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got paired up with lovely [ Rockettea ](https://rocketttea.tumblr.com) for the Reaper76 Reverse Big Bang! [ She did the art and prompt for this Hanahaki inspired fic. ](https://rocketttea.tumblr.com/post/167955195558/my-contribution-to-the-reaper76bigbang-reversew) I had a lot of fun while working this prompt, so hopefully my language isn’t too flowery (ha…….) But most of all, I hope I did her art justice and that you enjoy what we created together!

America is noisy. It isn’t the headlights cutting under the highway sign that rouses Ana from a rigid sleep. Horns and semi engines had been as restless as she was since the moment they entered city limits. Which is...odd.

She’s no stranger to America: an impossible feat with it being two of her closest companions’ home country— one of whom was a regular season pass holder for Blizzard World. Back when they had been allowed to live in the world they had saved, California had been their first stop during a post-Crisis tour. LA,  more specifically. Gabriel saw no merit in leaving the Los Angeles limits but begrudgingly indulged Ana’s request to see San Francisco. Seattle and New York had been after that, shortly followed by Niagara Falls and Malibu beaches. A few years down the road, she found herself in Santa Fe, curious to the kind of place that had shaped a man like Jesse McCree.  

Through it all, however, never once did Jack Morrison suggest going back to Indiana. It had been borderline suspicious,  Ana thought. He’d return to Bloomington for a week during winter holidays, often with Gabriel at his side. Aside from that, he never said anything of it, until Ana pressed him about it one holiday only to discover  that there, in fact, were no secrets, no conspiracies or bad blood: just an awkward shrug of “I didn’t think it was worth an international trip to visit.”

Instead, Bloomington had turned out to be one of her most unique visits. She caught it when it was still peaceful; before Overwatch fever had started sweeping the world, and it swept up the hometown of its Strike-Commander right with it.  Bloomington became a city on the rise, jumping to the second most populated city in the state only five short years after Overwatch’s founding; and was even predicted to overtake Indianapolis by the end of the decade. But just as it rose with Overwatch, it fell just the same. All the progress to build up the area froze, as shrapnel from Zurich’s demise reached halfway around the world; its citizens: adrift. 

So the bumper-to-bumper traffic four hours after sundown had not been what  she was expecting. It was as if a hand had reached in, turned the key, and wound up the city again. A hand, Ana suspected from the billboard looming above her,  that belonged to the North American arm of the Vishkar corporation. Rumors of negotiations between the mayor and the tech industry giant had already begun circulating a few months ago.  It would be a breadcrumb trail to chase another day, however. They weren’t here for Vishkar today, at least not directly. 

The motion of a fast-moving semi tangles with a breeze, forcing Ana to clutch her hood tight to her chin. After tucking her braid under her hijab, she settles back against the metal sign, eying the objects scattered around her feet with an impatient squint. With a nudge to the side of the self-boiling teapot, she can see the abysmally low temperature and equally low reserve of solar power. The dense hub of trees a few hundred feet in front of her is to blame. She spent the better part of the day under their protection, grateful since most of the land had been repurposed for residential complexes. In hindsight, she can’t help but be miffed that those same trees had denied her the chance of a hot cup of tea before work.

Defeated, Ana pours the lukewarm contents of the kettle into a red thermos. She stuffs the kettle into a knapsack scattered with sleep-inducing solutions and various alchemical darts, and makes her way back to the patch of forest overseeing the city. Traffic turns into the crisp buck of leaves below her feet and she deposits the sack against a cleverly camouflaged duffle bag leaning against a tree trunk. She unscrews the top and bottom halves of the thermos and distributes the tea between them, carefully guarding them with her hands to not waste any precious heat.   

“Did you sleep at all?” she asks but gets a hand motioning for her silence instead. Ana clicks her teeth and takes a calming sip of quickly cooling tea. She then lowers herself and her voice down to her companion’s ear. “I only ask because people have a tendency to do foolish things when they are not well-rested---and you have a tendency to do them even when you are.”

She punctuates the statement with a swift kick to the man’s side, which makes him chuckle. He sits up to receive the other thermal cap of tea,  leaves rolling off the  76 emblazoned on the back of his jacket. The mask comes off but the scar sliced lips don’t drink before offering an appreciative grin that Ana Amari can’t help but return.

 Jack downs the cup in a  gulp and hands it back. He wipes the corner of his mouth with his glove before tapping the watch secured to his wrist so that it projects a timer. “Seven minutes,” he says, “seven minutes and then I’m going.”

 The smile immediately drops from Ana’s face. Her rifle is right where she left it, secure on the tripod and expertly positioned to track the entrance and exits of the apartment building just below the clearing.  Beside it is a laptop that’s been linked into nearby security drones, and several holo-pads with articles that were read, highlighted, and then read again; again, and again...

Ana dumps the last sip of drink into the brush.  “I think this is a mistake, Jack.”   

“24 hours.” He jerks his head towards the building,  “I agreed to wait 24 hours before engaging.”

“No, we agreed to wait 24 hours before deciding on a course of action—”

“And I’ve decided _this_ is our course of action.” Without another word, he fixes the lower half of his mask back over his face and flashes the six on his watch.

Ana mutters “stubborn old fool,” but crinkles into the grass beside him at her tripod. She double checks the scope and ammo and finds both the chamber and pouch at her hip to be well stocked. And their target---

She rubs the corner of her uncovered eye and picks up one of the tablets depicting a freckled man with somewhat lopsided ears. The Overwatch crest is neatly pinned to his navy blazer. “Adrian Willow,”  she reads as she scrolls through the profile, “I think I remember him? Didn’t know he was from Bloomington.”

“That was the only thing I did know about him,” Jack says with a snort that falls somewhere between fondness and irritation. “Mentioned it like six times during his interview. Ended up as an assistant  in Angela’s lab—handled the bulk of the clerical work, I think.”

Ana hums and continues to skim, “And it looks like he signed on…three years before Zurich? That’s not long at all.”

“Long enough to smell the shit starting to pile up,” he growls, and even through the mask, Ana can see his jawbone tighten when he adds: “Provided you didn’t have a bouquet of roses shoved under your nose.”

“Is that why you’re keeping those things in your ammo pocket?”

Jack covers the pocket with his hand and raises a greying eyebrow up at Ana. “People got scared during those last few days. Started talking to anybody who’d listen—anyone who would grant them amnesty from this mess as long as they said what fit their story. Not exactly a great time for those  of us who actually stuck around.”

“Fair point,” Ana acknowledges, “though it wasn’t exactly a picnic before my ‘untimely demise.’ So you think that was it? Atlas pressed Bloomington-born-and-raised Willow as a credible source for their story, and  he panicked and told them what they wanted to hear?” She pauses, scrolls back up to his picture and frowns. “Or was he their insider all along..?”

“That’s what I intend to find out in exactly…three minutes and thirteen seconds.”

Ana sighs more audibly than she intended. She places the tablet with Willow’s picture down and reaches for the one closest to Jack:

 

_Dead Jane Doe Confirmed to Be ‘Overwatch Scandal’ Suspect_

_(Phoenix, AZ) Investigators can now confirm that the human remains discovered last Sunday outside the Clarendon Park apartment complex belong to 43-year-old Ivy Jacobs.  At a press conference held earlier this evening, Sgt. James Early responded to criticism about the length of time it took to properly identify the victim, citing the state of the body was what held up the investigation. “ Nineteen years on the force and I’ve never seen anything like it. [Jacobs] looked more like a shrub than a person.”_

_The death was ruled as an extremely severe case of dehydration, and the county sheriff’s office went on to advise residents to stay hydrated, especially during peak daytime hours. Early also sternly reminded residents that scattering flowers around a victim’s body before police can arrive tampers a potential crime scene and is a felony offense punishable in a court of law._

_-—_

_A trusted stenographer who worked several hundred international cases, Jacobs documented numerous hearings surrounding incidents perpetrated by the former sanctioned organization, Overwatch, as well as the prosecution trials of its former agents._

_But in 2074, Jacobs’ name appeared at the center of controversy again when Riley Copper-Meier, Esq. representing Angela Ziegler, M.D., formally charged her among twenty-three other court officials with forgery, collusion, and perjury, among other mismanagements of evidence. The United Nations agreed to launch a thorough internal investigation, but found no reason to suspect foul play—_

 

 She stops herself from reading further. Nothing would change either of their stories. “Gabriel,” she says the name haltingly as she looks over the headline again, “thinks he’s guilty. Just like the others.”

 Jack shakes his head. “No. Whether he was an insider or pressured doesn’t matter to him. Only that he did it.” 

 With that, he stands and dusts the clinging leaves off the front of his jacket. Ana rises and attends to the ones on his shoulder as he fixes his visor and syncs the earpiece tucked under a greying tuft of hair. He checks the pistol in his holster, choosing to rely on it over his favored pulse rifle. Hopefully there would be no need for either for this mission, of which he was now currently 30 seconds ahead of schedule.

“Jack!” 

Ana catches him by the arm just before he turns to go. Her other hand snatches something midair in front of his chest and guides him back around to face her.  Standing on the tips of her toes, she tucks a yellow flower back into the unopened pocket of his ammo pouch and secures it.  “Stay safe, old man,” she orders with a small punch to his chest. 

A quick nod just before the timer reaches zero, and then he’s a hunting dog with a scent: effortless as he clears the slope of the hill and over the divider. Through her scope, Ana follows his movements, the hunched posture and speed transforming him to appear more beast than man. The surroundings only amplify the effect. Although Willow’s complex is far from condemned, the stylized buildings a  few blocks away pressure its appearance. The start of the promised “New Bloomington;” a taste of what Vishkar’s arm had to offer the city.

For now, their developments work in their favor. Most security drones had been redirected to the newer areas, and a chain fence is easier to scale single-handedly over one forged from light-tech. Jack’s body drops over the other side without so much as a rattle.   

“Wait,” Ana advises and the beast below her freezes. She pulls back from the scope and watches the dot tracking the lone security drone blip until it’s completely vanished from the screen. He’s back in motion the moment she gives the go-ahead, not even stopping to ready the jump that has him hanging under the first flight of stairs.  It’s a playground to him, Ana supposes, as she watches him pull himself up to the first landing. 

“You know, you’d look far less conspicuous if you just took the stairs like a normal person.”

A chuckle crackles into her earpiece. “And deny you the show?”

“I’ve seen it,” Ana huffs, scanning the skyline and roofs for an unwanted audience, “just make sure you get to the part where you don’t die. Willow’s place is on the fourth floor.”

“Room 402. I remember.”

Ana’s stomach twists a little as her finger flexes slightly over her rifle’s trigger. “I understand getting information is important, Jack. But I question the legitimacy of all this, especially given the nature of its source.” 

“Legitimate? Our lead is coming from inside Talon, Ana: legitimate is the last thing it is, but it was right about Jacobs, wasn’t it?” Jack grunts in between his efforts of scaling the underbelly of the second flight of stairs, “And it was right about Garret and Palmer; Slovinski, Marcel, and Cypress. Looks pretty convincing to me.”

Were she not a lady, she’d spit. “A convincing trap, maybe. An elegant trail of rose petals to seduce you back here, right where he wants you. You think it’s a coincidence we’re back in Bloomington? Do you honestly think Adrian Willow, Assistant Overwatch Lab Clerk,  is his target, Jack?” 

Only static comes through the other end of the com, though Ana can see his form scale the last flight of stairs, ending in a dismount that is equal parts reckless and graceful. He steadies himself flat against the outer wall and then finally: “That’s why I’ve got you, Ana: to watch my back when I do stupid shit like this.”

The sniper curls her bottom lip. “You’re not stupid, Jack,” she sighs, “which makes me wonder if you just don’t care for your own wellbeing at all.”

There’s not even static to offer her comfort through the silence that follows this time.  Un-scoped, she can’t even distinguish him from the shadows clinging to the corners of the building as he douses the light from his visor. She checks the laptop for the path of the security bot. “You’re clear.”

 Still nothing. Ana fetches the piece out of her ear and squints down at the green light. Fully charged, unlike her kettle. She returns it and whistles low, only to hear it back: the microphone’s still working.

 “Jack?” she tries again, except now she doesn’t even see him through the scope. She can, however, make out the sliver of black between the ajar door and frame of room 402.

“Was the door just…left unlocked?” she asks to no one listening.

Ana’s stomach twists a little tighter, unsure whether it was mother’s intuition or a soldier’s experience that was prompting her to remove her rifle from its stand and sling it over her back. She tests a few steps against the slope of the hill, leaves gasping underfoot as she stops herself from losing her footing. The hollow buzz in her ear sets her jawbone; takes her back to Gaza six years ago when a Talon sniper took everything from her—the moment she disconnected her com and took off in pursuit.

“I’ll kill him,” she swears, cursing at how easy the old fool made descending the hill look. Her toe catches a root but recovers before a spill. “Do you hear me?” she asks knowing full well he can’t, “Whatever little set up Talon has planned for you Jack Morrison will be merciful in comparison to what a shrike—“

A gunshot rouses a deafening beating of wings from above her, and a quick follow up sends them into the air. Under all the fluttering, Jack’s name  flies out of Ana’s mouth with them, as she stops herself at the best vantage point she can manage. She raises her rifle just in time to see a glowing, agitated security drone swoop towards the building. It drops with a flick of her finger.

Going downhill might’ve been tricky, but getting back up was proving to be more of a challenge than Ana’s bones cared to admit: something of  a Sunday stroll, thirty years ago.  She had to be quick, as well. A downed drone would not go unnoticed for long. 

Teeth grinding, Ana pushes through the pain and fires a round of the biochemical injection at her own feet without a second’s hesitation. It gets her up a little bit higher: not quite the position she was in prior, but enough to see the building. In the distance, she could see circling blue lights warm to a cautious yellow. Something had alerted the Vishkar sector drones. 

Ana readies her rifle again, splitting her focus between the rooftops, alleys, and 402 doorway.  “Come on old man...,” she pleads to her dead earpiece every time she passes over the building, “Get out of there…. Get out of there--”

The door erupts backward, and Ana almost loses focus as it shatters against the rail, thick sharp pieces tumbling to the lot below. From the sound and heavy smoke, she thinks it an explosion until the wisps contort themselves into a semi-solid shape that dives off the four-story ledge. There, among the wooden shards, it finishes into a billowing cloak and hood. 

A sudden flash whips Ana’s attention back up to the building and she swears deeply. Shuffling along the apartment’s  various balconies are a bundle of robes, slippers, and disoriented hands holding cellphones. So much for staying off the front page. 

When the first suspicious drone arrives at the scene it makes an equally quick exit, appearing to spontaneously combust on the spot.  A shotgun falls with its discarded victim. Ana expects to see its twin in his other arm, but as the shadows continue to mold themselves to the Reaper’s form, both claws are coiled protectively over his chest. 

Wounded, she supposes, not letting it stop her from taking aim at his leg. With a flick, the shot connects and the ghoulish mask swivels with owlish finesse towards her direction. Reaper inclines his mask forward as if acknowledging her. He doesn’t take the second round that hits him as graciously, knees buckling while the empty eyeholes fill with something darker than death: a glimpse of the nightmare Ana had witnessed when she pulled his mask back in Egypt.  He staggers towards her and for the first time since Gaza, the rifle feels unsteady in her hands. 

“That’s right,” she encourages, damning the warble in her voice, “come to me. Away from the building inhabited by idiots.”

As if on cue, a chain of gasps rolls over the balconies, as the biggest idiot of them all reenters the fray, taking a 402 glass window with him. He runs a gloved hand over the top of his head and shakes the glass out of his hair as though it were powdered snow, while camera flashes capture the large “76” displayed on his back. Gasps go up again as he takes a predatory leap off the fourth floor,  hits the asphalt with a roll, and immediately stumbles to his feet. 

Ana swaps her ammo over to healing with a click and aims, only for Jack to dart out of view at the last second. “Idiot,” she hisses, half at her target and half at herself for not anticipating it. She readies another cartridge just in time to see Jack reach to grab Reaper’s arm and watch him physically slip through his fingers. The wraith dances under tires and above car hoods before tearing off into the night.

In the confusion, she manages to sink two healing rounds into  Jack and goes to ready a third, only to find him missing from the spot. She swivels around the parking lot, up the rooftops, and balconies of spectators; the adjacent streets lighting up with high alert security drones: but scoped or un-scoped, she cannot find him. 

Until her earpiece suddenly springs to life. “Thanks, Ana. Knew I could count on you.” 

“Jack!” Ana responds, hating how her voice sounds more relieved than angry. She slings the rifle back over her shoulder, eyes wandering the woods for any sign of the two. “Where are you? What the hell were you thinking—?”

“Listen to me, Ana,” Jack cuts in with an old voice from his days as Strike-Commander, “I need you to get what equipment you can carry and start heading towards that meeting spot you and  I talked about.” 

Ana wrinkles her nose.  “That...Won’t that be the first place they look for you? We didn’t exactly make a quiet showing,” she adds with a look back towards the building flooded with cellphone drone lights. The first siren wails a few streets away. 

“Doesn’t matter.” 

Not the answer she wanted, but she’s too annoyed to truly argue as she continues the steep climb towards their encampment.  “Willow, “ Ana manages to get out, “Adrian Willow. Is he…?”

The com goes quiet just long enough for Ana to think he disconnected again until Jack’s response comes through, stiff and uncharged: “Dead.”

With that, the earpiece goes lifeless again. She tries his name three more times. On the fourth, she plucks it from its perch as if it were some foul bug that had burrowed into her ear. Alone again, the Shrike pulls her hood and cloak tight to her and complains to the shadows of birds dotting the branches above her.

“Fools. Both of them,” she tells her new companions with a brisk sigh, “but me most of all for putting up with them.”

 

###

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!  
> Final part should be ready Wednesday, November 29 or Thursday, November 30.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hell of a bouquet,” the soldier murmurs, admiring the flower between his thumb and forefinger. “Literally. An arrangement fit for a courtship of monsters."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm absolutely mortified how long it took to update this, but I hope it's decent wrap-up. Maybe?

Every second outside city limits is a snare. The air, hefty with fresh cornhusks, sinks into every cell until they’re stones. It  turns the swift sidewinding of his movements languid as segments of himself reach out, aching to touch down on solid land while sifting through thirty years of memories:   _Christmas. Wooly, scratchy sweaters. Jack. Farmhouse on odd years. Jack. Frozen pond and ice skating. Cold but  Jack. Jack. Jack--_

Never float Christmas.  That had been a non-negotiable they had reached that Halloween night abed a dozen Valentine roses. Didn’t matter if it also happened to be the eve of a second Omnic Crisis, world-saving would wait a day or four after a few pints of bad eggnog, and a long, _long_ nap.

The second non-negotiable was that even-ending years were to be spent in LA, smack dab in the bosom of the Reyes Family---and the Reyes family traditions. This meant  head-to-head gingerbread house competitions between him and his sister, Maricella: head chef and owner of the two-time Michelin Star-winning fusion cafe, _Coronado;_ stuffing Jack into their usual pew at Midnight Mass at Our Lady of the Angels Cathedral, as well as an obligatory day at Blizzard World for their Winter’s Veil celebration.

The flip side of that agreement, unfortunately, meant every other year was to be spent in Bloomington, where Gabriel found himself, no matter how many protests he made about his Blizzard World Full-Year Subscription being rendered useless yet again. His apprehension before their first year there meant Jack endured several months answering _Outhouse? You know we have indoor plumbing like the rest of America, Gabe_ and _I guess you could ride a horse into town, if you_ **_really_ ** _wanted to, but we just usually drive._

True to his word, Jack’s hometown hadn’t been the rural hellscape Gabriel had pictured when the young SEP initiate had introduced himself and was about as civilized as any place without an _In-and-Out_ could manage. Jack’s moms had been welcoming, kind but quiet, especially in the wake of the bustling festivities of the Reyes household: Elisabet brought fresh eggs in every morning for pancakes or hash before retiring to her painting, while Leah attended to the needs of the rest of the farm. Once and a while, she’d rope them in to assist with a feeding or a wheezy pickup engine, but aside from meals, the two were often left to themselves.  Alone. No impending mission, mountains of paperwork, theme parks, or cookie bake-offs.

The first year, Gabriel thought he’d disintegrate from boredom. He had walked away from the trip with no memory of anything significant; save for snowy wood walks with Jack and binge-watching mindless weekly programs their duties forced them to ignore the rest of the year. Stupid things: an ordinary life that he found himself suddenly wistful for in the middle of a medal ceremony for the Deadlock sting. His body began to crave odd ending years in Bloomington as much as being in his home state with his own family.

That, Gabriel Reyes swore, was something he’d take with him to the grave.

A promise he had gone above and beyond in keeping, Reaper concedes, finally collecting himself outside of a field thick with wild grass and weeds. Dry patches turn brittle as he wades through the brush. The thin ends of his cloak thread wrap around stalks with curious affection, while a black boot takes shape to step around a cleared patch of soil. Shapeless. Any defined rows worked by human or machine hands only existed in memory now.

As did anything that grew. Cracks trail his footsteps as he walks the length of the soil over. The nanites chitter, eager as flies over a corpse. The familiarity of the place eventually stabilizes them, however, allowing the rest of his form to solidify once again. They’re more of a nuisance than an asset, but the same could be said for most of the “help” he’s received. Doesn’t matter, Reaper is quick to remind himself. Talon is a means to an end, and he isn’t so naïve to think its council views him any differently.

 _Morrison and Amari?_ He remembers how the names twisted the corners of Akande’s mouth:  a question the seasoned fighter already knew the answer to. True to his moniker, the man who pulled no punches in a fight approached conversations with the same ferocious accuracy. Two steps out of a life sentence behind bars, and his eyes were already trained on anything that could put a wall between him and his goals. Ally or foe wasn’t a label the man used: people were either strong or they were weak. As to which category Reaper had been sorted into, he remains unsure.

But he has a pretty good  idea where he ranks. When Reaper pivots, he spots another yellow flower, petals splayed in perfect spring bloom among ruined soil.  He grinds it back into the ground with the toe of his boot while picturing Akande’s sneer: _I hope you’re not feeling sentimental._

But when he looks up, there’s another ylang-ylang a few steps behind, and behind that one, a prickly purple amaranth; on and on winding from his path along the barren field. It doesn’t stop there, either. His eyes follow the trail as it winds into the dried brush and no doubt stretches all the way back to blurry city lights and sirens.

But the distant howls of red and blue aren’t what snatch Reaper’s attention.  It’s the ripples rolling through the abandoned acres: wild grass bowing to acknowledge the presence of a gust of wind,  foraging animal or---

He pulls the shadows from beneath him, shaping it until moonlight glints off  the shotgun’s silver barrel: its eye following the rustle through the brush. It goes closer, more agitated, but he waits. He waits until a telltale glare of red cuts through the stalks a meter in front of him before taking aim.  “A beautiful thing,” Reaper purrs, “to see a soldier coming home.”

The shotgun cracks through the field, finding solid contact and a snarl from its target. Smoke and something cold and sharp fires back at Reaper, and the red light flickers out of the brush. The movement doesn’t slow.

“Shit.”

He gambles with a second shot, hesitating in the hopes of landing a more damning blow.  The shot misses his target, but his target doesn’t miss him. Backed by unnatural speed, Soldier:76 is his own weapon: a full-body bullet that sends both of them to the ground.

Fury erupts through every cell, confused by the all-too familiar shape and weight looming over his body. Parts of Reaper _cling_ to him, nulling any would-be attempt for a wraith-escape. He can already feel the shotgun slipping back into nothing as a fire begins to burn within his lungs.

Soldier pins his hands with his own and looks down, one blue eye showing through the broken visor.  His position is steady,, but his breathing is uneven. “So,” he grunts after a long exhale, “where were we?”

Reaper inclines his mask. “I would’ve asked ‘Your place or mine?’ but we’re already here…”

The old farmhouse, red porch still intact, is just enough to draw his captor’s attention, and it’s just enough to grant Reaper the leverage and momentum he needs for a quick strike at the  Soldier’s face before he’s restrained again. He does manage to pry that ridiculous mask off him, at least, so he can see that face— _his_ face.

Beautifully scarred from chin to temple, dull wounds weaved themselves among fresh cuts already beginning to scab. His cheeks are more pronounced and the nose is off, broken and healed before it could be properly set—but it’s him. _His_ Jack, who can hit an E-54’s power core with one eye closed, and sometimes floats Valentine roses to Halloween.

“I was a little surprised,” Jack says, eying the farmhouse, “Gabriel once told me he would die before coming here on an even year.”

“I’d say the last five years have all been odd—for both of us,” Reaper counters, forcing Jack to fight back a grin that’s far too boyish for a man of his years.

“ _Odd_ , huh? That’s a good a word for…this.”

He’s heard it describe them since their SEP days: the Indiana farm boy and the So-Cal city slicker who had forged a friendship of convenience. It would never last a day beyond the walls of their undisclosed location. They were too odd, too volatile for anything substantial to come out of it, aside from the occasional slink to the other’s bunk; and when Reaper’s nanites adjust to the force of thirty years of memories physically pinning him down, he wonders if their critics had been very wrong or very right.

“You’re more quiet tonight,” Jack notices, leaning back an inch. “At least compared to last time. Couldn’t get you to shut up in Cairo.”

Reaper scoffs. “Had to. Figure you wouldn’t say anything since you hate talking when the cameras aren’t around.”

The shape of his bones crack under Jack’s tightening grip, and the soldier digs his knee a little deeper into Reaper’s thigh with a warning: “Careful now...”

It’s an unfinished threat. Reaper can hear the gap where a name should be and he decides to close it. “You almost called me ‘Gabriel,’ didn’t you?” he whispers, and the whites of Jack’s eyes go wide.  “You desperately want to. You do, but you don’t. Never understood how someone so impulsive could be so indecisive when it counts the most.”

The hands securing Reaper’s wrists shake, but don’t waver; trembling until the warble overtakes his body and creeps into his throat. “I’m here, aren’t I?” he manages and the answer sends agony shooting through Reaper’s chest. “I’m here because I decided to trust...your information.”

“Both of you?” Reaper asks, but the way Jack’s face falls answers him before he ever opens his mouth.

“Ana knows…that it came from inside Talon.”

“But not from me.”

“No,” Jack says with a long sigh, “old habits, I guess…So, I expect a little cooperation on your end in return.”

A curl of black smoke slithers out of Reaper’s mask. “A curious man to be lecturing me on trust,” he snarls through another dark plume, “whose credentials include abandoning his closest friend when he needed him the most.”

He feels his shoulders lift only to collide with the ground once again as the weight securing him there doubles its efforts to keep him in his place. “ _Abandoned_ ?!” Jack snarls through the curtain of smoke, and when his face reemerges it has all the lines of a rabid dog. “I sanctioned _countless_ operations for him. I stood up in front of those goddamn cameras every day and justified every single one of them---I justified _Venice_ for him! ”

The city sends an uneasy shudder through Reaper, every cell remembering—reliving the operation that turned the entire world’s eyes on Overwatch’s covert division.

The scar splitting Soldier’s face looks ready to tear the man in two. “I explained it away… Cambodia... there were children involved… and I explained it. Said everything I needed to the cameras. I  said everything I needed to convince myself that there wasn’t a monster in my bed that night.”

Reaper shakes his head, the grass crackling underneath him.  “No,” he agrees, inclining the mask forward, “there were two, sleeping side-by-side.”

His cells brace for another violent impact: another throttle or punch to answer the remark, but it doesn’t come. Instead, he watches the fury retract from the man’s features, softening until the only lines are the ones age and old wounds left behind. “Huh,” the old soldier says, a pair of greying eyebrows lifting slightly. “That does sound like something he’d say.”  

With that, the weight lifts from Reaper’s wrists and chest. Soldier collects himself on his feet and takes a few awkward steps towards the farmhouse. His hands zip the jacket up and find warmth in its pockets just before the wind starts to pick up. “If you’re going to do it, do us both a favor and do it here,” he calls out over his shoulder. “I won’t stop you.”

The offer is…tempting.  Back turned, the red 76 is a begging target and one the black wisps swirling around his trigger finger seem eager to give into...but, _Where’s the fun in that_ is what he tells himself as he dismisses the unformed weapon with a flick.

He shadows Jack’s path with ease, the nanites offering no resistance as they pull him towards the man. Jack’s shoulders tense in an arc all the way up to his ears when he feels him appear, and the leather jacket rolls perfectly with it.

“You’re cruel,”  Jack growls, but his shoulders settle a little more every passing moment a shotgun doesn’t rip through him. Eventually, they plateau out with a sigh. Relief. A bluff: the old man didn’t want to die today, not really.

“But you’re right.”

He places a hand on one of the banisters, fingers curling around a spot where the wood is warped.   “I knew all the risks, Gabriel saw to that. I weighed every decision on my pen before it signed off on orders. We made... hard choices during The Crisis, and I thought-- _hoped_ \--we could do the same here.” His lip curls with a little chuckle. “If only every world problem could be solved by putting a bullet through a Bastion’s head.”

“I’ve found it makes me feel better. Personally, at least, ” Reaper offers, and it’s enough to coax a snort out of the old soldier.

“Yes. You’ve been quite busy, I noticed.”

Reaper returns the grunt, “You can’t deny it’s somewhat therapeutic.” He extends a claw to the cuff of Jack’s ear and slides it until it meets the hairs at the base of his nape. “Did it feel good?” he asks, leaning forward, “To crush Adrian Willow’s windpipe beneath your bare hands?”

Soldier straightens up and the skin beneath Reaper’s touch goes taut. He squeezes the banister until the wood croaks. And when Jack looks at him, he sees the man who had been behind the desk of Strike-Commander, hot phone pressed to a reddening ear, listening to Leah’s careful voice.

“Reporters won’t leave them alone,” is what he tells Gabriel later. “They’ve got vans parked on the lawn. Police will come and get them to move, but they just come back. Ma just walked outside to some guy from _Atlas_ asleep on the porch swing.”

His chin slips deeper into his hands. “They want to sell the place.”

It hadn’t been the first time that conversation had been breached, but before it had been offers: an onslaught of deals and contracts for rights to the old Morrison Farm. People who wanted a museum—a park—a national landmark to honor the hometown hero and snag a couple of tourists along the way. It had flustered Jack more than it had his mothers, who actually seemed to enjoy regaling their son with today’s plan to transform his bedroom into holy ground.

“Never!” Elisabet assured Gabriel one odd-ending Christmas when he asked if they would ever consider their demands, “It’s for you and for Jack to come home to after all that Overwatch business is settled and done.”

But if Overwatch’s rise had been a fever, its fall was pandemic. A widespread slew of tabloids and misinformation buried Zurich long before any explosion. It didn’t take much to find a “credible” source in the face of a lab assistant from the Strike-Commander’s hometown, and it took even less for Adrian Willow to agree to play along. Gabriel had known they’d single him out eventually. He had hated Willow’s face since the first day he saw him scurrying about Ziegler’s lab. Would’ve killed him just for his ugly mug.

But seven years of regrets had melted the instant Soldier entered and found Willow, a prisoner within his own apartment. The joy— the absolute elation that surged through Reaper’s cells when the man shivering against his shotgun for the last 68-hours tricked himself into thinking salvation had just walked through the door.  Willow would’ve wept with joy for a shotgun’s kiss had he known his last moments would be at the literal hands of Jack Morrison.

“How did it feel?” The soldier repeats, fingers unfurling around the jagged split in the banister. He tilts his head, blue eyes slipping back to a rare content Reaper found only in quiet corners of Gabriel’s memories. “It felt fucking _right._ ”                                    

 _And there he is,_ every cell in him sings. There was the man who had ended the Omnic Crisis at Gabriel’s side, not the show dog Petras had leashed to the Overwatch podium. Free and un-muzzled, Soldier: 76 was everything Jack Morrison was always meant to be.

And everything Gabriel had wanted for him.

“Always thought you would’ve done well in Blackwatch. No one believed me,” Reaper laments.

He touches an unbroken side of the banister with a tipped claw.  “They said you were too soft. Too kind… and it thrilled me every time I heard it,” he adds,  talon circling until it met the split in the wood, “Jack Morrison was a secret that belonged to me.”

That had been Willow’s ultimate sin. All of them.  Jacobs, Marcel, Cypress, and the rest. Even Wilhelm and Amari were guilty of it at times. Who could speak as though they knew the man beyond his titles? Which of them knew he squinted anytime he told a lie or that he learned to favor sleeping on his left side because SEP injections were administered on the right?

“A secret,” Jack says, retracting his hand from the banister to fiddle with the front pocket of his jacket. “Is that why you shot him in the throat after he was dead?”

“Sparing you the publicity. Like always. Just another unfortunate victim of the Reaper’s wrath. Shame isn’t it? Just like all the others you were… ‘too late’ to save.”

The blue in Jack’s eyes ices over. When he opens his mouth, the protest fizzles out between his teeth, and it’s a wounded noise sweeter than anything a weapon could inflict.

“Poor Jack Morrison,” Reaper sighs, “somehow always one step behind, always one day too late to save anyone."

He straightens up so the black hood levels out at his shoulders.  “Because you watched them die. Watched them knowing they would lead to Adrian Willow…and me.”      

The more he talks, the more Jack’s features freeze over: the stiff back, a stone jaw, all familiar sights from UN hearings and press conferences that had taken an irking turn when someone asked something a little too close to the truth.  Reaper may as well be speaking to the stone monument outside Zurich, or whatever is left of it. It didn’t matter. Silence was as good as any admission. His final years in Overwatch had taught him that. 

“I told you in Cairo, didn’t I?” continues Reaper, one black boot already descending the steps to the porch. “Everything I do has always had your invisible signature on it. I know what you’ll do, what you want.”

 _And what you don’t,_ the trail of perfect blossoms stretching towards the city reminds him from across the barren field.

“Always have, always will.”

“No,” the stone soldier finally interjects, “you don’t.”

Amusement blooms alongside the agony ripping through Reaper’s chest cavity. He turns back to the man slow, owl-like, “No?”

But his snide huff evaporates once Jack reaches into his ammo pouch and produces a thin yellow petal.

“Hell of a bouquet,” the soldier murmurs, admiring the flower between his thumb and forefinger. “Literally. An arrangement fit for a courtship of monsters. Definitely puts a dozen roses and a box of chocolates to shame, that’s for sure. But… he always was the better gift giver.”

He tugs at the leather jacket’s blue collar for emphasis, and the nanites in Reaper’s fingertips buzz with the memory of needle pricks. They remember the secret hours in dim light embroidering the number Gabriel had known him by before his name; all driven by sheer will and caffeine to craft something no boot licking diplomat or entrepreneur could ever hope to give the Strike-Commander. Something unique that belonged to him—to them. Though, his motivations hadn’t been _purely_ altruistic.  It was just as much of a gift to Gabriel to see Jack wearing it, and on certain nights, only it.

“I didn’t… quite understand it at first,” Jack adds with a self-deprecating snort. “The SEP might’ve blessed me with quick legs, but it takes a while for the rest of me to catch up. So, when a bunch of Talon files on flowers showed upon the server, I didn’t think anything of it at first.”

 Reaper’s claws curl into a simmering fist at his side.  Sombra’s handiwork no doubt. She was back on the fast track of hacking her way to the number one spot on his list.

His agitation goes unnoticed by the old soldier, whose attention drifts to the neglected fields spanning the Morrison property.  Jack frowns. “We used to keep sunflowers in the field for aphid control. Big ones too. As wide as my face and just as tall. Maybe even taller.”

“I remember,” Reaper whispers.

It’s just soft enough to sound like his old voice, and Jack swivels with the urgency of someone who heard a knock at the door; as if expecting someone.

Jack shuts his eyes and swallows. “Practical things like that I knew,” he says, “but things like how an amaranth’s name means ‘unfading’ and what a ylang-ylang even was… God, I thought they were some kind of yellow lily. Not that it really matters, right?”

He squeezes the petals in his hand. “Because these things aren’t real flowers. They’re… _you_ , aren’t they, Gabriel?”

 _His_ name.

Reaper’s chest spreads into a brushfire, alive and wild.

He called him _his_ name.

There’s smoke in his throat or at least it _feels_ that way: a jungle, a tangle of cords and words that his cells can’t quite seem to settle on. Even the buzzing of the nanites feels subdued: every sound in the world in quiet worship of the way he calls him by his name.

_And silence was as good as an admission._

“Gabriel,” he repeats, tongue leaning into every syllable as if the word threatened to vanish, “Can you… show me?”

Too many times has Gabriel heard that tone, that request from Jack. _Can you tell me? Can you show me? Please, Gabe._   It’s enough to get the nanites buzzing again with memories and decisions.  It’s instinct for Gabriel to refuse. A wink, a smirk, or a smart comment to temporary placate Jack from knowing what could only hurt him.

So, it goes against every cell, memory, and nanite whirling through his body to wordlessly raise his arm, hand outstretched for Jack to take.

The old soldier appears just as puzzled by the gesture. Reaper crooks a claw to ease the hesitating hand into his own, talons locking neatly with the other’s gloved finger tips as he guides him down the front steps. Jack follows, not a stubborn muscle or bone in his stubborn body stopping him; no common sense urging him to fight or run. Too pliant, too trusting: his usual state under Gabriel’s touch.

It continues when they’re level with each other on solid ground. When Reaper reaches for his other hand, a spellbound Jack Morrison offers it, and he pulls their entwined fingers to

rest right at his chest. Below his fingers, the soldier traces the shapes and patterns of the leather piece, fingertips marveling as it slips and shifts under the pressure.

Jack sways in a place as if it’s an awkward sixth-grade dance. “What are we…?”

He’s cut off by a very real feeling of sinking.  When he looks down, his fingers are slipping-not under, but _into_ the very fabric of the black leather he’d been adoring.  

Horrified, Jack jerks his hands backward only for Reaper’s talons to deny the motion. The black cowl smokes at the seams when the mask beneath it lunges forward, mere centimeters from the soldier’s face.

Reaper squeezes his hands so hard they shake when he pleads, “See.”

The tension in Jack’s shoulders settles, as Gabriel’s spell settles over the old soldier once again. He closes his mouth and nods so that his forehead leans into the edge of Reaper’s mask. He keeps himself there even as Reaper releases Jack’s hands, smoke rising as the claws plunge through the leather and fabric of his very being.

He can _feel_ Jack, fingers cautious and curious roaming the shape of him; and his cells are buzzing loud, embarrassingly loud with eager reunion. It takes an acre of self-control to will them away from Jack’s touch as they attempt to bury him with affectionate hums. Jack obliges the movements with delicate twists while they weave between the gaps of his fingers. He even chuckles as a smoky tendril ventures to go so far as his elbow before—

Jack’s fingers still when something solid—crisp—brushes against them. Slowly, his thumb and forefinger close the space between them, meeting a fresh, green leaf. And there, through the smoke and black semblance of bone, a flourishing wreath of silk stems, spindles, and yellow petals hung in an arc where lungs should be.

He cups a large ylang-ylang . “These…these are mine? For… me?”

The mask practically nuzzles Jack when Reaper returns the nod. “All of them.”

“Oh, Gabe…”

The soldier curls his bottom lip and shakes his head. “Why?”

The cells circling Jack’s ministrations go rigid at the question, but it doesn’t stop the man from continuing to explore the grotesque garden beneath his palms.

“I told you, didn’t I?” Jack murmurs, stopping to shoo some of the smoke covering a particularly small amaranth, “Can’t love a dead man.”

He pulls away and something inside Reaper _twists._ The shape of every bone sprouts thorns remembering that Halloween evening. His cells begged for that stomachache again—a fraction of the agony ripping through his body. All of this-- everything just to confirm what every bud and blossom had been screaming since Zurich. And Jack---

Jack is smiling.

“Jack Morrison is dead—and well deservedly so,” he grins. He pushes back through the smoke and agitated cells, and seizes a tangle of roots and stems in each fist so tight that Reaper can feel the man’s bones. “So why, Gabriel, are you pining for a corpse?”

Before Reaper can respond, the old soldier grits his teeth and _yanks._ Roots snap with an agony reserved for fractures as the arrangement comes undone in a fury of petals, pistols, and stalks. When Reaper’s throat opens, it relishes that a scream rips through it, not flowers. It carries over the acres of the abandoned farm, and collapses with the rest of him into the crook of a blue leather jacket that embraces him.

“You’re alright,” Soldier assures, steadying him, “It’s just us now. Only us.”

 _How it should’ve been,_ every cell coos. Unrestricted, the hem of the black coat is  practically swaddling the old soldier, as they sway in a ring of withering ylang-ylangs and amaranths.

“Stay,” Soldier whispers, dipping his head below the Reaper’s cowl. He reaches up and blindly slides his fingers along the jaw’s edge of the mask before resting a finger on either side. “Come with me and Ana again. We could…”

Reaper brushes Soldier’s hands away, for once wishing there was a flower he could conjure instead of the words, “I can’t.”

76 rears back, teeth bared, “But Talon--!”

The fury wilts almost instantaneously with a long sigh. He raises an eyebrow. “Right. I’ve already signed off on whatever the hell it is you’re doing with them, haven’t I? Fine. I don’t understand it, but fine,” he grumbles.

“One day,” Reaper lunges to force them back together, talons squeezing the soldier’s thighs so hard he gasps, “the rest of you will catch up with those quick legs of yours.”

The soldier’s wince morphs back into his usual slanted grin, “Shame. We would’ve had the whole house to ourselves.”

“Isn’t—”

The rest of the words hiss under the open-mouthed kisses Soldier plants into his throat. “Isn’t Ana on her way here?” he finally manages.

Soldier’s pleased hum reverberates through his cells, conjuring frantic memories—his shirt loose around his neck; dog tags between Jack’s teeth; hands slipping under his uniform belt…

“She is,” Soldier takes a breath to answer, “though I hardly see why that would change anything. She’s keenly aware of our… old habits.”

“She’s keen to put one of those darts between my eyes,” Reaper growls, only encouraging the old soldier’s chuckle.

“She will. And then she’ll have a cup of tea, and settle down. Like always.”

" _Like always,”_ Reaper mocks. Still, he casts a furtive glance over his shoulder just in case the old sniper happened to be behind them, ready and waiting with a fresh round to his face.

“Nothing escapes these eyes,” she’d proudly proclaim during  their first breakfast at basecamp, before descending into a playful scowl at the two of them, “or these _ears.”_   Motherhood had only sharpened the veteran’s abilities, and he wonders if Fareeah’s straight-laced nature had been a form of survival for the girl: couldn’t get an Ana Amari Lecture™ if you did nothing that warranted lecturing.

But his cells conjure another image of his friend. More recent than the young, playful scowls was a woman with a mask in hand, unfiltered horror warping her features. _What happened to you Gabriel…?_

And he reconsiders the farmhouse. “Perhaps… it might be best to be out of sight. At least for tonight.”

“Tonight,” the soldier echoes, already pulling him towards the front steps, just as Jack Morrison had every odd Christmas. Reaper scoffs and stops to grind a black boot against the dirt to rid it of a withered petal still clinging to him.

“Look at you. As if nothing’s even changed.”

Soldier tilts his head in a manner that only golden retrievers should be capable of.

“What has?” he asks, “Look at us: two chewed up monsters in costumes with an absurd bouquet, fit for a Halloween night.  All we need is a stomachache and we’d have--”

“Our usual arrangement?”

And the way Soldier grins back fills the shape of Reaper’s lungs with a new ache. If he was a breath, he’d hold him until his body threatened to expire. Again.

“Yes, that.”

###

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again for reading and for the kind comments. I'm sorry the final update took so long.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Remaining chapters will be posted over the next two days:
> 
> Chapter 1 Monday, November 27  
> Chapter 2 Tuesday, November 28  
> Chapter 3 Wednesday, November 29


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